


Welcome Home

by memymo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memymo/pseuds/memymo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kiss is a bit unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

The punch was predictable. Later, John would give him a matching one on the left side, but right now, Sherlock is being pushed against the cold, hard concrete by one furious DI.

The kiss is a bit unexpected.

It is not like the gentle, lazy kisses they shared when Lestrade has the day off and Sherlock is not so busy running around London causing havocs. It is neither the passionate kisses before they go at it each other like rabbits in his office. It is raw, desperate, and unrelenting – the urged to not dominated, but to grounded and convinced oneself that this is actual reality and not some fucked up dreams the mind has concocted to messed up him further more. Lestrade presses harder, his hands roaming everywhere, coming in contact with the unfamiliar fabric of the coat, tugging the stupid unnecessary scarf out of his way so he can feel the heat, the pulse beating, mapping the skin like a blind man. He does not want to let go, because he afraid the heart beat will stop if he does, afraid the moment will dissolves and it will be just him again, lonely in the dark and freezing his bones off. So he tugs harder and kisses harder, because if this moment disappears then he will still have this – the heat, the moisture, the smell of expensive cologne with vague foreign name.

But everything has to come to an end. And he needs to breath.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Too afraid to, really. It is cliché and Sherlock will mocks him relentless after this, but he doesn’t care, because there is a warm hand wiping his tears and that’s all he can focus – the movement and the heat on his face. That’s all he needs, after countless nights sitting alone in his apartment, wrapping himself in an unwashed bed sheet that is cold and lifeless. So he lets himself go, because this time, there is someone there to catch him.

“Well, Detective Inspector, that was quite a welcome.”

He has the urge to punch that arrogant, shmuck smirk, but he realises that he doesn’t have the energy for it. Not now. Maybe later, after John is through with him. The little shit.

But Sherlock is home, here, and in his arms – that’s all that’s matter right now. The chewing out can wait for a little bit.


End file.
